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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29575650">Choosing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella'>OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>360MG format, All about choosing, Discrete chapters, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:20:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29575650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in which either Greg or Mycroft had to choose, set in 360MG format.</p><p>360MG: 360 words, the last two of which start with M and G in either order. a 221b for Mystrade, if you will.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Choosing Gregory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gritting his teeth used to be enough to weather his mother’s acid tongue. Mycroft had been aware his technique was no longer working as it did for a long time, but today, it seemed, was the day it would fail entirely.</p><p>In hindsight, it was inevitable.</p><p>“If you would only come out of your office occasionally, Mycroft, you might finally satisfy your mother and find a wife.”</p><p>The words were out before he could school them.</p><p>“I will never find a wife, Mother.”</p><p>“I beg your pardon?” She was blinking at him, lips pressed together as she waited for him to retract his words.</p><p>Perhaps another day he might have; instead, he pressed his thumb against his ring and swallowed.</p><p>“I will never find a wife, Mother.”</p><p>His mother’s gaze grew pitying. “You are not beyond redemption, Mycroft. As I have been telling you for years, you are accomplished enough to mediate your unfortunate-”</p><p>“I will never find a wife,” Mycroft interrupted her, waiting until she was looking at him before continuing, “because to marry again would be bigamous.”</p><p>She did not understand, that much was clear, and Mycroft sighed, settling his teacup and saucer on the side table. He stood, carefully buttoning his jacket before meeting her eyes. The challenge was a familiar warning that he had always heeded.</p><p>
  <em>Do not overstep, Mycroft. Retreat, and you will be redeemed.</em>
</p><p>Today he chose destruction.</p><p>“I am married,” Mycroft told her. “His name is Gregory, and I am happy.” He paused and when it appeared she was not going to speak, added, “He does not consider any part of me unfortunate.”</p><p>“How delightful,” Mycroft’s mother said.</p><p>Neither Holmes spoke for a long time, though Mycroft knew exactly what was happening. He could feel the chasm pulling open between them as he made no apologies for himself, and it was clear his mother would extend no kindnesses of her own.</p><p>Not that she ever had, in his experience.</p><p>“Good afternoon, Mother,” Mycroft said for the last time.</p><p>She nodded, though no words passed her lips.</p><p>Mycroft walked out, pulling the main door closed behind him, one thought pulsing through him.</p><p>
  <em>My Gregory.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Choosing A Movie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mmm...Why is it insufficient to allow you to decide?”</p><p>Greg rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to choose something you hate,” he said patiently. “So we’re going to pick this movie together.”</p><p>“And we will persist regardless of my ambivalence?”</p><p>“Yep,” Greg said, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist.</p><p>He grinned, eyes on Mycroft’s face. He loved this expression. It said <em>I’m pretending to be vexed but you’re being too adorable,</em> and Greg knew these were precisely the right words because he’d made Mycroft explain it one day. A pink flush had chased the mumbled words, though Greg only saw it a second before Mycroft buried his head in Greg’s chest. He pulled Mycroft closer, grateful they’d had enough wine to ease both their awkwardness. His heart thrilled at the little admissions they whispered to each other that night.</p><p>He’d always remember exactly what that expression meant. It was possible he now angled towards opportunities to see it, when things might have headed in that direction anyway.</p><p>Hence, his insistence on Mycroft helping him chose the movie.</p><p>Greg was still basking in the warmth of Mycroft’s expression when he realised it was slightly different this time. Something was a little tighter around the eyes. It reminded Greg of something, but he couldn’t quite work it out. Nothing too terrible, but it was familiar, the kind of expression Mycroft used more often than…</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, the tightness easing. “I believe you would say, ‘I’m onto you, mate’.”</p><p>His cockney accent was spot on, and so unexpected Greg broke into laughter. “I’d apologise, but I really do like when you look at me like that.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I understand why,” Mycroft said.</p><p>Greg shrugged. “Not everyone gets to see it,” he said.</p><p>“Ah,” Mycroft replied.</p><p>These moments were Greg’s favourite; eyes meeting, a smile being shared across a distance slowly closing until Greg could taste it on Mycroft’s lips. It drew out, neither in a hurry as this small admission eased their connection deeper.</p><p>“So,” Greg said finally, “which movie should we watch?”</p><p>Mycroft hummed something that might have been affection or exasperation. “A compromise,” he murmured. “Goldfinger.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Choosing Instinctively</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grim anger burned through Greg’s veins, and he clamped his lips shut, knowing there was nothing he could say that would make a difference.</p><p>“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Greg bit out, turning away.</p><p>“Make it next week,” Sherlock retorted.</p><p>“Berk,” Greg muttered, stomping down the stairs with such focus he didn’t even notice anyone in the entranceway.</p><p>It was like slow motion.</p><p>He didn’t see the man so much as register a shape, too close to stop his forward momentum. At some point his brain realised who it was – the familiar cologne perhaps, or a flash of startled grey eyes – and Greg twisted instinctively, pulling the other body close as they fell. He braced, knowing they’d hit the far side of the narrow space; far better it be his back, his head bent to avoid cracking against the wall. The impact was as jarring as he anticipated and it almost knocked the breath out of him. He stood for a second, the world frozen before both he and the man he held close started to move. Greg realised his hand was cupping the back of the other man’s head in case he misjudged the angles, and as he and Mycroft eased back from each other, he felt Mycroft’s hands pressed against his chest.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Greg asked.</p><p>It was disconcerting to see Mycroft so close. The human details Greg’s imperfect eyes robbed him of were right here, and they stole the breath from his lungs more effectively than crashing against the wall.</p><p>“Why did you do that?” Mycroft whispered. His eyes were wide, his voice quiet, but most significant to Greg, his hands were still pressed to Greg’s chest.</p><p>“Had to make a choice,” Greg said. “Knew I could take a hit against the wall.” He tried for a grin, but the atmosphere was too heavy, pulling the levity down. “Just another day, getting bashed about.”</p><p>“You protected me,” Mycroft replied quietly. “Over yourself.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Greg said.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Greg’s heart leapt at this unexpected opportunity. “You know why,” he gambled.</p><p>Mycroft’s wide eyes flared before he nodded.</p><p>“Have a drink with me, Gregory.”</p><p>Greg swallowed. “Call me Greg, Mycroft.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Choosing The Ideal Arm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft had never considered the exact weight of a grown man’s arm before. Not in a personal context, at least. If someone had asked him what the ideal weight was for an arm, he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea how to go about discerning such a number. And why the weight, he would have wondered. What about other aspects of this ideal arm? Where was he to source such an appendage? For a man with such a varied set of resources, this would surely had taken time to fulfil.</p><p>Now however, Mycroft would have a confident answer. Well, not a number precisely, but certainly an answer.</p><p>
  <em>Gregory’s arm is the ideal weight.</em>
</p><p>What that translated to in a metric measurement, he couldn’t begin to guess. Several kilograms? Asking Gregory to have his arm weighed would be strange, and Mycroft couldn’t work out how to arrange it without having to explain why it was important. And that would require him to admit how many hours he lay awake at night, Greg’s arm anchored over his stomach, marvelling at how perfectly the deep pressure stimulation helped calm him. Sometimes he rolled onto his side, and Gregory followed; the weight on his ribs wasn’t the same, but it was still satisfying. Part of him wondered if an inanimate weighted length would have the same effect, but as soon as the idea presented itself he knew it would not.</p><p>While the weight was important, it was not everything. It was not the smell of Gregory, or the little snuffling sounds he made in his sleep, or the way his chest rose and fell beside Mycroft. The warmth Mycroft would have thought stifling was instead cozy, the invisible brand pressed gently into his waiting skin.</p><p>The shape of Gregory’s arm was now familiar, the elbow sitting in its familiar spot, digging in slightly before the lighter end veered off, Gregory’s hand barely brushing the surface of Mycroft’s chest. Sometimes his fingers twitched in sleep; it had startled Mycroft on more than one occasion, but now he was used to it. And Mycroft knew why.</p><p>It was not the arm but the whole man.</p><p>Gregory.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Choosing To Stand Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Maroon. Deep grey. Forest green. Why were there so many colours in the visible spectrum? Hesitantly, Mycroft allowed his fingers to settle on the dove grey, but Ernest’s disappointed sigh was clear.</p><p>“A difficult choice,” Mycroft murmured.</p><p>“Clearly,” Ernest replied.</p><p>Mycroft looked up. He would tolerate such assessment from few people, but Ernest was a genius with fabric and Mycroft had learned long ago he was not the kind of person to beat around the bush when he could get his point across in far fewer words. It was a small accommodation to have him responsible for Mycroft’s wardrobe.</p><p>“And you would choose…” Mycroft prompted him.</p><p>“No,” Ernest said. He folded his arms, the bold turquoise of his pullover tight across bodybuilder’s biceps. “This is your wedding. <em>You</em> have to choose.”</p><p>“And yet you clearly have an opinion,” Mycroft said, hoping to prod him into making a suggestion.</p><p>Ernest snorted. “Honey, everyone is gonna have an opinion. That’s how this works. Every man and their dog thinks they know best, but you get to ignore them and do exactly what you want. And they’re not allowed to be mad.”</p><p>“Even if I chose the dove grey?” Mycroft asked.</p><p>“That’s the same colour you chose for your business suits last season,” Ernest pointed out.</p><p>“I believe I chose a range of contrast colours,” Mycroft protested.</p><p>“Shades of grey are not a range of colours,” Ernest told him. “And two red pocket squares does not count.”</p><p>“I like dove grey,” Mycroft murmured.</p><p>Ernest rolled his eyes. “Well, I mean if you want to fade into the background,” he said. Mycroft considered it, but before he could get too attached to the idea, Ernest spoke again. “No,” he said sharply. He squared his shoulders. “Mycroft Holmes, you need to choose a colour that makes you…” he made a ‘pop’ motion with his hands, fingers splayed wide.</p><p>Mycroft, accustomed to choosing subtlety over ostentation, swallowed. He hesitated. “Perhaps…” he murmured, allowing his fingers to land on the same rich turquoise Ernest wore. Their colouring was similar, after all.</p><p>Mycroft looked up, hoping for confirmation he’d chosen right.</p><p>Ernest said it with a marvellous grin.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Choosing To Change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shifting his weight, Mycroft resisted the urge to check the time again. Surely, only moments had passed since he last looked at the face of his pocket watch. There was nothing to be gained from repeatedly checking if the minute hand had crept forward or not. The temptation to change his clothes again was still present, and he strode into the sitting room, hoping an extra few metres between himself and his wardrobe would be sufficient to stop him.</p><p>The trousers were cut differently to his suits, and they hugged his legs unfamiliarly. His tailor would have said that was the point; it was a moment of weakness in which Mycroft had agreed to be fitted for this outfit. He smoothed one hand, remembering his surprising reflection. The deep green of his jumper was flattering, making his skin look healthier than he could remember, and though he believed his legs to be skinny rather than lean, Oswald would not be swayed and Mycroft did not have the energy to argue with him.</p><p>His mind was preoccupied lately, poring over memories that may or may not have been significant until he’d finally realised only decisive action would help resolve the matter. And so, he stood in his living room without a precise idea of the time, dressed in what he considered casual clothes, waiting for…</p><p>A deep breath, a critical eye over his flat. It was perfect, of course. Nibbles and drinks were prepared, his office was discreetly locked, the bathroom and kitchen were perfectly clean. It was all ready. Ready for (another deep breath, and he forced the words to settle in order) his date to arrive. Surely Gregory would not be late? The light in his eyes at Mycroft’s terribly stuttered question was clear, yet Mycroft was still unsure about how to spend this last few minutes. Restlessness was not in his nature; his body was under iron control and this discomfort in his muscles was unfamiliar and disconcerting.</p><p>When the door buzzer sounded, Mycroft drew a deep breath.</p><p>
  <em>You can do it.</em>
</p><p>Thirteen strides, and his hand was on the door handle.</p><p>Gregory was here.</p><p>The much-awaited guest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Choosing Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was interesting, Mycroft mused, how people tended to mark certain moments in a relationship while others went unheralded. He had to admit some milestones were worthy of pause; the first night Gregory stayed over his heart pounded hard, surreal minutes alternatively racing and crawling by with the clock. Today would be remembered, of course; legally binding ceremonies tended to stick in the mind.</p><p>But the smaller events remained with him as well. To Mycroft they marked the progression of his emotional connection to Gregory, or more accurately, assurance of their mutual connection.</p><p>As he fussed with his bowtie, Mycroft recalled the small moments he held as dear as any other landmarks.</p><p>When Gregory made tea the first time without having to ask what kind Mycroft would prefer, a single raised eyebrow was enough for Gregory to shrug. “You always drink this before bed,” he murmured. Mycroft couldn’t tell if the warmth in his chest was due to the tea or Gregory’s fond expression.</p><p>The night Mycroft showed Gregory the drawers he’d cleared in the wardrobe, fingers shaking as he extended the parameters of their relationship. The lump in his throat dissolved as Gregory’s hands cupped his face, a gentle kiss pressing his acceptance onto Mycroft’s mouth.</p><p>A smile blossomed the night Mycroft entered his flat, the usual quiet and still disrupted. A coat already on the hook; a light burning in the living-room; the enthralling scent of <em>Gregory</em>. The key was still shiny on Gregory’s keyring, winking a promise of many more such receptions.</p><p>“When we get married,” Greg began, and the rest of his statement was lost in Mycroft’s astonishment. Often he had longed to broach the subject of a permanent link with Gregory, but this was the first Gregory had spoken of the idea. His expression must have been a giveaway; Gregory’s face appeared in his view, smile affectionate.</p><p>Bowtie finally straight, Mycroft blinked at himself. His disquiet eased with each memory made, and now he could smile at his previous hesitance. Nothing was more certain in his mind than Gregory’s commitment to him, and now the rest of the world would know it.</p><p>Humming, Mycroft grinned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Choosing Connection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Greg had experienced plenty of things in his life, sexually speaking. Nothing too out there, but he’d been with both men and women and done most of the things two people might do in bed together. There’d been a couple of threesomes, and one very memorable orgy his ex-girlfriend had convinced him to attend. If someone had asked him what he liked, he’d shrug and say the usual things; he wasn’t really into anything that might require equipment or excessive conversation beforehand. There had been good sex and mediocre sex and ‘exactly how I thought it would be’ sex and what he thought was great sex at the time.</p><p>That was before he’d met Mycroft.</p><p>Well, he met Mycroft a long time before they ended up in bed, and Greg wouldn’t have realised the conversation would have been so important before that. Somehow he and Mycroft spent one long evening gazing into the fire and avoiding each other’s eyes, neither acknowledging the steep slope into intimacy as they admitted intimate details of their pasts. Greg found himself explaining how much he wanted connection, regardless of the acts performed; how lying together, fingers stroking skin filled his emotional cup more than an amazing blowjob might do. He listened as Mycroft described the desperate loneliness of a man with few social connections and a general fear of new people; before he’d shaped the words Greg recognised the kindred spirit within.</p><p>
  <em>I want to lie with him.</em>
</p><p>Greg would never know if it was his own courage or the Scotch that spurred him to look over. Mycroft was already looking at him, the longing in his eyes was unmistakable, and to Greg’s astonishment it was not packed away when he saw it.</p><p>“Mycroft,” he said quietly, “I have no plans for the rest of this evening.”</p><p>“Nor I,” came the reply.</p><p>Greg’s heart soared and he abandoned his Scotch, pulling Mycroft up out of his chair, holding his eyes every second. “Come to bed with me,” he said.</p><p>A flash of apprehension was overtaken by relief in grey eyes, and Greg shuddered at the touch of Mycroft’s fingertips to his face.</p><p>
  <em>Mycroft. Glorious.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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